The Place of the Damned

Jonathan Swift
Irish
1667 – 1745

 

All folks who pretend to religion and grace,
Allow there’s a HELL, but dispute of the place:
But, if HELL may by logical rules be defined
The place of the damned -I’ll tell you my mind.
Wherever the damned do chiefly abound,
Most certainly there is HELL to be found:
Damned poets, damned critics, damned blockheads, damned knaves,
Damned senators bribed, damned prostitute slaves;
Damned lawyers and judges, damned lords and damned squires;
Damned spies and informers, damned friends and damned liars;
Damned villains, corrupted in every station;
Damned time-serving priests all over the nation;
And into the bargain I’ll readily give you
Damned ignorant prelates, and counsellors privy.
Then let us no longer by parsons be flammed,
For we know by these marks the place of the damned:
And HELL to be sure is at Paris or Rome.
How happy for us that it is not at home!

The Authentic Sunnah

We present this work in honor of the 205th anniversary of the poet’s death.

04-20 Usman
Usman dan Fodio
Nigerian
1754 – 1817

 

Leave us alone with recalling what
Father used to do…
Leave us alone with relying on what
Is practised in the east;
These are grounds for those who
Stayed astray from Sunnah
Leave us with the idea that it is
Practised at Medina
Both Mecca and Medina are inferior to the Sunnah.

Lift Up My Steps

We present this work in honor of the First Day of Passover.

04-15 Freha
Freha Bat Avraham
Moroccan
d. 1756

 

Lift up my steps, O Lord, my savior,
I’d go to my country with a placid joy;
an ignorant people pursues me now,
and taunts me with a thunderous noise.
Take me, quickly, to a Galilee mountain,
and send your anger across their skies;
there I’ll see your light, my crown,
and say: Now I can die.

Lines Written Upon Seeing Strawberry Hill

03-18 Penny
Anne Penny
Welsh
1729 – 1784

When Thames, in plaintive murmurs, lav’d the grott
Where once his darling Pope each care forgot;
Where, with the Muse, he pass’d the smiling day,
Whose strains celestial crown’d the moral lay;
Each drooping Swan with sorrow view’d the shore,
And mourn’d, in melting dirge, their Bard no more:
Ah! flown, O Thames! thy fairest Swan (they sung)
Whose warbling lyre immortal Genius strung,
Truth, Nature, Virtue, touch’d the trembling chord,
While mute Attention caught the Poet’s word.
And must thy beauteous stream incessant mourn?
Is Genius banish’d, never to return?
No—thy sweet banks, immortal Thames! shall prove
His fond affection, and the Muses’ love;
Succeeding years will sure a Walpole give,
In whose progressive mind shall genius live:
His wish to crown—each Muse—each Grace shall meet,
And fix on Strawberry Hill their lov’d retreat.

Guansuoling

03-13 Cai
Cai Wan
Chinese
1695 – 1755

The mountains are far away from the extremity, and the sky is limited to the southwest since the past.

The beacon quietly guards the building and the fox goes up to the house, the wind is noisy and the ancient cranes startled the group.

The sideways stone is dangerous and the horse is in danger, and the deep lock Xiongguan cold protects the cloud.

Chi Yu Shengping still feels dangerous, and who reminisces about the old general.

To Miss Whyte on Seeing a Picture of Her Designed for Her Father

z 03-07-22
Henrietta Battier
Irish
c. 1751 – 1813

To say you are lovely is to say no more,
Than what ten thousand must have said before;
To say that beauty and her handmaid grace,
Attend your footsteps and illume your face,
Is truth, dear maid! in the most literal sense,
Your form possessing every excellence:
Yet face and shape may be pourtray’d by art;
But who can paint the beauties of your heart,
The glow of tenderness and filial joy,
That only fervent bliss without alloy,
Which sweetly mantles on your virgin cheek,
Whene’er your honour’d father’s name you speak?—
Thus, heavenly maid! the reason is reveal’d
Why every artist in your likeness fail’d;
Their earthy pencils could not draw the line
Between mere beauty and the rays divine,
That prove your form all lovely and refin’d,
The casket only of a lovelier mind.

To

01-12 Albrecht
Sophie Albrecht
German
1757 – 1840

When your kiss hovers on my lips,
And each of my nerves trembles,
When your cheek lies hot on my cheek,
And your breast clings to mine,
Ha! who can say then exactly what I feel,
And maybe this is a deep sin,
My fearful soul calls often with a shudder,
And yet with passionate lingering
My mouth stays glowing at your lips,
Hotter grows my cheek, instead of fleeing
I press you drunkenly more firmly to my breast,
Oh what holds me more strongly—Do you know, by best one?